


Therapy

by gallifreyanlibertea



Series: OTP "Drabble" Challenge [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cardverse, M/M, check notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-21 02:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14906555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyanlibertea/pseuds/gallifreyanlibertea
Summary: King Alfred returns home from war after a year, but he suspects his Queen might be hiding something.





	Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if there are any triggers here but just to let you know there is a BRIEF sentence describing death/violence but there's no character death in the fic. Also if you are triggered by mentions of war, I wouldn't read further, even though war is not a huge part of the story.
> 
> The fic was written based on prompt 49. “Your voice is sexy.” - “Your ass is sexy.”

Alfred didn’t know what he’d expected would happen when he came back from the war. A year of grueling battle upon battle, and all he’d wanted was to be back home to his queen, to be in Arthur’s arms again, as he had been before he’d left for the battlefield.

Arthur had held him in his arms, and they’d pretended neither of them had been crying, “I’ll see you soon, love. Okay?”

“Okay.” Alfred had said, and then he’d been off. It seemed for the first few months, Arthur wrote to him every week, and Alfred would read his letters in his tent, laughing at his husband’s witty accounts of ‘the lonely palace life’, saving the more  _racy_  compositions for nighttime when he was alone in bed- he held those letters to his chest, every day, and he would write Arthur back, hoping Arthur was doing the same.

Of course, it was only natural that when word got out that they were losing, Arthur’s letters got lesser in number… until they had stopped altogether.

After their surprising victory, Alfred had returned home a year later and Arthur had greeted him at the palace doors with a polite handshake and a genuine, weary smile. He had greeted Alfred in the bedroom with heated kisses and a grip so tight it was as if Arthur believed to let Alfred go would be to lose him to another war.

Alfred loved his queen, and he had no doubt Arthur loved him as well. But this Arthur was not the same as the one that had kissed him goodbye when Alfred had left for war, he could feel it. And although they clung to each other every second, it seemed, after Alfred had returned, he could feel Arthur drifting away.

So there they were, seated next to each other on a leather couch as a woman smiled at them, tight-lipped. “So what made my royal highnesses think they needed couples counseling?”

Arthur’s gaze dropped to the floor. Alfred cleared his throat, “We just thought it would be a good idea since I’ve been away for so long.”

We, of course, meant just Alfred. Arthur hated the idea of counseling. “Counseling? God, that’s  _embarrassing!_  There’s nothing wrong with us, Alfred!” He’d said, when Alfred had brought up the idea at the dinner table, “We just need some getting used to.”

Alfred was adamant. He would much rather get to the bottom of their issues than to prolong the suffering, the awkward silences, what seemed to be a look of pain in Arthur’s green eyes every single time he looked at Alfred- Alfred didn’t want to lose his queen.

So there they were. After consulting their minister, they had a therapist brought to the palace grounds, careful not to let the media get a hold of any information, lest it leak to the public that the royal family ‘had issues’. 

Which wasn’t necessarily the best idea for a country already depressed by blood loss. 

“My Queen, how do you feel about this?” The counselor said gently. Arthur folded his arms.

“I think it’s unnecessary. I think we’re fine.”

“King Alfred?”

“It doesn’t feel the same.” Was Alfred’s reply, and the woman went on about how he shouldn’t have expected it to be the same. A year changed both of them, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was for the worse!

Arthur had grunted in agreement. Alfred shook his head, “No, it… it doesn’t… it’s not the same. I feel like we’ve been apart too long.”

He received a smile in response. “I think what I’m seeing is typical. After your time apart, you feel as if you’ve lost the love you’ve had for each other, or like you don’t know each other as well anymore. I suggest for this week, your homework should be to tell one another about things that happened in your time apart.”

“I won a war.” Had been Alfred’s cheeky response that night, attempting to garner a smile from his somber husband.

Arthur had scowled, getting into bed and turning the other way, to which Alfred followed suit, tugging at Arthur’s shoulder.

“Arthur, come on.”

Arthur was silent.

“Arthur!”

“I never lost any love for you, Alfred.” Arthur snapped, turning to face Alfred with eyes stormy. “Can you say the same?”

“It’s not that we don’t love each other- There’s something wrong.” Alfred had replied. “I can just feel it. I just want us to get better, Arthur, I’m not blaming anyone for anything.”

Arthur stared at him. His eyes softened and he turned his back again, to which Alfred drew his bed covers over his shoulders and stared at the ceiling.

“I started writing poems,” Arthur said, just before Alfred fell asleep. Alfred smiled.

Arthur was more compliant next week. “Your homework for this week is to find ways to appreciate one another. Give each other compliments.”

“Could you pass me the butter?” Arthur had said at the breakfast table, toast in hand. “I’d…  _appreciate_  it.”

Alfred snorted. “I  _appreciate_  that you’d appreciate it.”

Arthur smiled into his cup of tea.

As much as he would’ve loved to spend the rest of his days making his Queen smile, Alfred had been made, just barely after he finished his food, to attend a meeting discussing the treaty that ended the war. If there was one thing he hadn’t missed being a king on the field, it was talks of territory. 

The sounds of passive aggressive arguing and the mention of the war were a hammer chiseling his head. He closed his eyes, clutching his head, body jolting him back to reality with the imagined sounds of cannon fire. He stepped out of the room for a bit of air, finding Arthur in the garden that bordered the palace, in those little overall shorts of his, dirt streaking his cheek.

“I appreciate the way your legs look in those shorts.” Alfred had called. Arthur glanced up, a badly-hidden smile spreading across his face.

“Thank you for your  _compliment.”_

Alfred kissed Arthur beneath the bushes until his headache dimmed to a faint whisper. “Arthur, I have to go back now.”

“Okay.” Arthur had said, and Alfred kissed his Queen’s knuckles. He went back into the room to listen to even more diplomatic argument.

It seemed everything was a headache, save for the times he spent alone with Arthur. 

“Can I compliment you, Artie?”

Arthur ran his hand down Alfred’s arm, lip quirking up in a smile. “It’s what the doctor ordered, isn’t it?”

“Your voice is sexy.”

Arthur huffed out a smile. It wasn’t the first time Alfred had said it to him. In fact, Alfred recalled meeting Arthur for the first time. He’d been young then, younger than he was now. That meant, of course, he was easily and embarrassingly excitable.

Arthur, the prince of a smaller kingdom, was found to bear the mark of the Queen of Spades. He’d been brought to Alfred’s palace immediately and Alfred had peered out his window as Arthur stepped out of his carriage, wondering what he would look like up close, wondering what he would sound like.

When he’d been put in a room with Arthur to get better acquainted, he could barely contain himself. It was only when Arthur had left back to his kingdom, with a shy smile in Alfred’s direction before disappearing into his carriage, that Alfred had practically thrown himself on his bed, clutching the pillows in glee.

Oh _sweet Jesus_ , that jawline!  _That accent!_ Alfred’s heart threatened to tear through his chest with every thundering beat.

Alfred had told  _everyone who would listen_ about his handsome fiancé, and it was only a matter of time before Arthur had overheard and cleared his throat, cheeks pink, stuttering to Alfred that he thought Alfred was attractive as well.

Arthur didn’t stutter this time. “Can I compliment  _you_ , then?” He reached down to pinch Alfred’s-

“Hey!” Alfred yelped with a laugh, swatting at Arthur’s hand.

“Your ass is sexy.”

“My ass appreciates your compliment,” Alfred said, to which the two snickered, and Arthur pecked him on the lips like it was all normal. It was just as it used to be, and they were carefree.

Alfred liked it that way. 

But as long as Arthur still looked at him like it hurt him to see Alfred there, Alfred wanted to know why.  _He didn’t know why._  He sat up in bed, brows furrowed slightly at the thought, and Arthur seemed to understand because the smile on his face slipped away.

“Alfred?” Alfred felt Arthur take his hand in worry, and it struck him, like a thought in the back of his mind that didn’t make sense until just then.

“Arthur, why did you stop writing the letters?”

It seemed he’d hit the mark, because the look was back, and it was guilt. Alfred could see it now, plain as day, the distress in those eyes that screamed  _apology._  Arthur was on the verge of tears now, and Alfred would’ve said anything, would’ve changed the subject, would’ve done anything not to have to see Arthur cry, but he wanted to know.

He squeezed Arthur’s hand. “Arthur, why-”

“I… I don’t know,” Arthur stammered, “I- I, well, I think I know but please hear me out, don’t say anything until I’m done.”

Alfred clenched his jaw. He nodded.

“I didn’t think you would come back.”

And Alfred felt the heat rising in his chest. He felt the cannon fire in his head. It was a thought that had plagued his own mind while he fought- the thought that he would never see his husband again, that he would spend his last days covered in grime and soot at the bottom of some trench, eaten by rodents after he passed away from too much blood loss, but he’d always assumed Arthur had hope.

He’d conjured a million excuses for why Arthur would stop writing to him, but he’d always known why. He supposed he just never wanted to admit it.

Arthur seemed panicked, his lashes fluttered, “No, I- I wanted you to come back. A big part of me  _knew_  you would come back, I just… there was a small part of me that wondered if you wouldn’t. You were gone for so long, and it all just felt like I was… I knew if you didn’t come back, I would…”

Arthur held eye contact for a second before he looked away, nose wrinkling at the stinging tears pooling in his eyes. His voice quavered, “I just had to stop, in case you-”

Alfred caved at the image of Arthur hunched over an unsent letter, teardrops warping the ink. “Arthur, stop. It’s- you don’t have to talk about it, it’s over. It’s alright.”

Arthur shook his head, “No, you need to know. When you came back I… I’m so sorry I couldn’t- I should’ve believed in you more. I shouldn’t have doubted-”

“Arthur.”

“But I never stopped loving you, I-”

“I know,” Alfred said. “I never doubted that. I never blamed you for anything. I’m not blaming you for anything now.”

Arthur didn’t make a noise, but it seemed as if he’d heaved an overdue sigh of relief. His lashes fluttered his eyelids shut. Alfred eased Arthur’s head back onto a pillow, drawing the blanket over their shoulders.

“I love you for telling me,” Alfred said. “I- and I would’ve loved you even if you hadn’t. I love you. I understand.”

Although it seemed only a man fighting a war would be affected by it, Alfred watched Arthur clutch Alfred’s shirt, eyes shut tight as if afraid to open them, to see any trace of disappointment in Alfred’s face.

“Look at me. I understand.”

Arthur looked at him. He blinked before shutting his eyes again, burrowing his head into Alfred’s chest.

“Thank you, my love.”

Perhaps this Arthur hadn’t been the one that Alfred had known before the war, but it was foolish of him to assume a year’s time wouldn’t have changed a thing.

“Does this mean no more therapy?” Alfred said.

“I think it’s a good idea.” Was Arthur’s muffled response, “We should talk about this. We should talk about us.”

Alfred had changed, and Arthur had changed, but Arthur was in Alfred’s arms now, and they were together. They had time. 

They slept, entangled, anchored to the bed. They wouldn’t drift away.


End file.
